


Nirvana

by withdrawnred



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdrawnred/pseuds/withdrawnred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s really something about seeing people you love in this extreme state of happiness. Dare she call it nirvana? For their sake, she truly hopes it is. Merlin knows, they deserve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nirvana

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Interhouse Fest 2012

“Cheers!” A cacophony of the word rings throughout the dining hall, a collection of identical glasses being raised in salute. Enamoured newlyweds Dean and Amelie Thomas (nee Croix) bear million-Galleon smiles. Padma can’t help but return the smile. There’s really something about seeing people you love in this extreme state of happiness.  
  
Dare she call it nirvana?  
  
For their sake, she truly hopes it is.  
  
Merlin knows, they deserve it.  
  
  
  
  
  
“All right there?”  
  
Padma doesn’t bother looking up at her date, which was  _certainly_  a liberal use of the word. (She and Anthony Goldstein always had been and always will be as far from romantic as possible. She’s highly certain that feeling is reciprocated on his part, and this had made him the ideal wedding date.) Instead, she downs the glass of wine she’d been swivelling and brings the glass down with perhaps too much force.  
  
“Just tell me this.” Padma looks up at the smile in his voice. “Will I or will I not be required to Side-Along you home tonight?”  
  
She answers with a chuckle and a light elbow to his ribs. “Isn’t that the point of a wedding? It is an open bar, after all.”  
  
He laughs, but his expression soon grows serious, and she feels her anxiety flare up. Again. It’s certainly going to be the night for that. “Really, Padma. Are you all right? We can leave anytime you want. Dean and Am would understand.”  
  
She quickly nods and attempts a smile. “I’ll be just fine.” Her eyes drift to the head table, where her old colleague Amelie sits with her new husband. The two are almost literally glowing. And sick-inducing. Although, to be quite honest, Padma doesn’t know if her nausea is due to the couple’s joy or the sight of the best man. They hadn’t seen each other in some time.  
  
That was one benefit of him not living in Britain anymore.  
  
“Don’t restrain yourself on my account,” she says as she stands from her chair, tapping her finger twice on his glass. “I’m going to refill.” Padma smooths her hand over the skirt of her dress. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”  
  
In answer, Anthony downs the last of his wine and returns the glass to the table with a loud clunk. She smirks. “Back soon.”  
  
  
  
“One of those nights, is it?” Seamus asks, looking pointedly at the two glasses of red in her hands.  
  
Padma likes standing near the bar at events like this, because it usually has an excellent view of the rest of the room. This bar falls into said category, and she’s beyond grateful. The bar’s position allowed her several seconds to collect herself (as much as possible, at least) while Seamus approached before contact.  
  
“Nice to see you, too,” she says through tight lips. “Sadly, only one of these is for me.”  
  
“Yes, I saw you’re with Golden Boy.”  
  
Padma doesn’t even try to suppress the imminent eye-roll. “Nice to see you’ve come into proper eyesight and maturity with age. What a treat.”  
  
“So,” he says, “are you two . . . ?”  
  
Padma vacillates between being irritated with his ridiculous jealousy and somewhat satisfied at it. His façade of arrogance still has a crack or two in it, at least that she can tell. Perhaps she’s still the only one who can.  
  
“No, Anthony and I aren’t anything that we weren’t the last time you and I spoke. And it wouldn’t kill you to use his proper name for once. Even his surname, for Merlin’s sake.”  
  
The transformation is slight, but she sees it nonetheless. He stands straighter - though only just - and his eyes are brighter, his smile surer.  
  
Seamus Finnigan is nothing if not a bloody peacock.  
  
“Job well done, Pad.” The swift topic change is something she hasn’t had to deal with in a while, and it almost throws her off. Her eyes immediately seek his, searching for the key to that unbelievably cryptic compliment. Well, potential compliment. Seamus is too much of a charmer for her to ever truly trust the words that he spouts at face value. He could be commenting on anything from her hair and general state of dress to the drink in her hand to --  
  
“You know, Dean will never forget you’re the one who set those two up.”  
  
Ah, yes. Job well done on setting up the couple of the day. Hopefully he doesn’t see her relief that his comment isn’t directed at her.  
  
“They’re certainly my greatest success story yet,” she says with a genuine smile. “I’m sure Dean was happy to get you out of Germany for once.”  
  
“I wouldn’t miss my best mate’s big day for anything.” Seamus shrugs. “I don’t know whether I’d be more scared of Dean or Amelie if I’d missed it!”  
  
Padma laughs. “I wouldn’t know. You’re the only one I know who’s experienced both sides of that coin.”  
  
“To be honest,” he says, leaning back against the bar, “she’s probably scarier.”  
  
“You’ll never know now, will you? That’s what you get for being a decent human being,” she says, before politely excusing herself back to her table.  
  
  
  
“You know, you’d probably like her.”  
  
“What? Who?” Padma looks up at her dance partner - currently, the groom. She blushes at being caught staring at Seamus and his own dance partner.  
  
“Prue,” Dean says with a nod of his chin towards the woman in question, his new sister-in-law. In Padma’s professional opinion, you could fit approximately three feathers between her and Seamus’ bodies. Not that she’d been analyzing, mind you. “You two’d get along.”  
  
Padma nods. “She seems interesting.” Despite the nondescript nature of the word she chose, Padma knows Dean is probably right. Aside from how well he knows her, it’s Murphy’s Law in full effect. Jealous of a girl your ex or otherwise love interest is interested in? You will, by Murphy’s Law, actually like her, no matter how much you wish otherwise. Mother Nature’s a bitch that way.  
  
Not that Padma’s jealous.  
  
Dean smiles, but there’s something a little too knowing in his glance for Padma’s taste.  
  
Perfect time for a subject change. “So how long are you two going to be on this honeymoon?”  
  
“A couple weeks,” he says. It’s amazing how immediate the change in his face is, and Padma can pinpoint the moment his eyes find Amelie. His eyes light up in pure, unadulterated joy. The kind that is contagious in all the right ways. She can feel his happiness filling her up. “We should get together when Am and I get back, the four of us. How is Barney anyway?”  
  
Padma smiles. “I’d like that very much. And I’m sure he would, too.” She’d had a moment of panic when Dean had said the four of us, and she’s sure he noticed. “Barney’s great. He’s off visiting his family this weekend. We agreed it’s too early to be each other’s plus-ones just yet.”  
  
Dean nods. “Well, it’s good to see he’s family-minded. I know how important that is to you.” He follows her gaze then to Prue and Seamus again, who look to be dancing ever closer, which hadn’t seemed possible before. Funny, the things you associate with certain words -- like family -- as you mature. “You know, Padma, you may not be related by blood to either of us, but Amelie and I want you to know how much you mean to us. You may as well be family.”  
  
“Oh, Dean,” she sighs. “I’m very happy to have the two of you in my life.”  
  
He laughs. “As are we. We have you to thank for being together anyway!”  
  
She grins and gingerly squeezes his shoulder. “I can’t take all the credit, you know! I may have set up the blind date, but you two did the good work.” As the song begins to wind down, she finds more words pouring out - ones she’s thought countless times but never thought she’d actually say out loud. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, Dean,” she says quietly.  
  
“What for?” he asks, perturbed.  
  
“For not taking sides.”  
  
He simply nods and pulls her into a tight hug.  
  
  
  
Not an hour later, Padma sits happily outside, perched on a bench in the property’s gazebo. She can only take social interaction for so long before she usually holes herself up in the bathroom for twenty minutes. Thankfully, there’s plenty of open space in which she can do just that. And yet another glass of wine, in which she can also lose herself. She likes having options. The excuse of smoking exempts her from any unwanted scrutiny from her friends and “friends”. It’s funny, she’s always thought, that it’s more societally acceptable to go off for a smoke than it is to just stare out a bloody window when you want a moment to yourself.  
  
With that glass of wine warming her tummy and a freshly lit cig between her fingers, she finally feels relaxed enough to breathe. This is the first moment in  _hours_  that she’s had absolutely to herself, without a single person nearby to ask any of a variety of questions.  _Wasn’t that a darling service? When are you getting married? How’s Parvati doing these days? Isn’t that biological clock ticking? Are you okay seeing . . . him tonight?_  She’s never much understood why people are so nosy. The world will not fall apart if you don’t know every detail of every person you come into contact with. That’s a guarantee.  
  
And to be honest, the answers to those questions would spark more questions and what’s worse, pity. The repetition of the questions themselves just made it all the worse. _Well, yes, that was a darling service. I really don’t know when (or even if) I’m ever getting married. I haven’t spoken to Parvati aside from the typical holiday owl in eight months, at least. As far as I know, she’s alive. But that’s generally the extent of our adult relationship. I would appreciate you to keep your comments away from my biological clock.  
  
And, no. Not even remotely ‘okay’. _  
  
Padma’s known that, in all likelihood, today would be a day in which she’d need to see Seamus. For the first time in . . . Merlin,  _months_. The only thing that would’ve exempted his presence is death or loss of all limbs. And as usually accompanies seeing, she’d need to speak to him. Not necessarily at length, but conversation would happen. This is, in fact, something she has some modicum of experience in. They split a couple of years ago, due in part to his career trajectory and in part to her aversion to long distance relationships. Being career-minded herself, she’d rather encouraged him to take off and pursue his potential. Since then, they’d shared each other’s company a handful of times. Padma’s not particularly proud of the choices she’s made in that handful of times; Seamus Finnigan is something of a weakness for her.  
  
She really wishes he wasn’t.  
  
With her back to the house, the only light that casts much of anything on things in her line of sight is the dusty bits of ash flying off of her cigarette. That, coupled with how deep she’s dove into her thoughts, she doesn’t notice anyone next to her until she feels the cigarette being pulled from her fingers. The end of the cigarette is barely light enough for her to see her new companion’s lips, but it’s enough for her to recognize him. She relaxes, her spine no longer resembling one afflicted by  _Petrificus Totalus_.  
  
“I thought you gave up smoking,” Seamus says around the cigarette.  
  
“I did,” she says, snatching her cigarette back. “I only smoke socially now.”  
  
He snorts. “I think for something to be a social habit, you have to do it with people.”  
  
“I smoke on my own so that I can return to being social and not go on a murdering spree. Does that qualify?” It seems only natural that the very reason she needs to decompress should follow her out of the reception.  
  
“Mind if I smoke with you, then? May as well actually socialize if you’re going to call yourself that.”  
  
In answer, she hands him a new cigarette. The silence that follows is positively glorious. Any remaining rigidity in her melts away as the comfortable silence envelopes her. She’d forgotten how it feels to just be next to a person, without feeling the need to fill gaps with inane and pointless conversation. Although Barney is incredibly similar to her and fulfills many of the things she looks for in a partner - intelligence being a huge part of that - there’s still an element of awkwardness to their silences. If that doesn’t go away soon, Padma’s sure it won’t last. She’s long since known that she needs someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill all the gaps in conversation. In fact, she remembers the day she realized that it was possible. She and Seamus had been together nearly a year, and she’d instantly filed that away as a required qualification. There’s just something comforting about being able to sit and  _be_  with a person, without needing to fill time with the mundane.  
  
It’s definitely something Padma’s missed since she and Seamus went their separate ways. She’s dated a handful of blokes between him and Barney, and none of them were ever very comfortable with quiet for quiet’s sake. Pity; they all had such potential. Her mother had been particularly cross with her for the last break-up. Padma has never expected her parents, each of whom come from such large, rowdy families, to understand the comfort she finds in silence.  
  
“Shall we toast?” Seamus’ question jerks Padma back to the gazebo.  
  
She looks to her right, her eyes adjusting just enough for the embers from his cigarette to light up his mouth and chin. His mouth is set into a permanent smirk, it seems. He always could find the amusing in anything. Picking up her wine glass, Padma shakes her head slightly. “Sorry, I’ve nothing to toast with.”  
  
Almost as soon as the words come out, she feels her glass becoming heavier with a refill of wine. Padma looks up at Seamus, surprised. In response, he simply sets the bottle onto the floor next to him. “Brought reinforcements.”  
  
A laugh. “Ever the prepared one, Mister Finnigan.” A real laugh.  
  
He returns the laugh, his always real. “So, Miss Patil. A toast.”  
  
“To what, may I ask?”  
  
“Why, your matchmaking skills, of course.”  
  
She laughs again, and soon clinks her glass against his before downing her newly filled glass. Almost immediately, her glass is refilled with the contents of Seamus’ bottle.  
  
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Seamus?”  
  
“I’d say you’re already there, Pad.” He has a good point, she almost says aloud.  
  
“If you say so. Another toast?”  
  
He nods, filling his own glass. “Your turn.”  
  
“To Dean.” Glasses raised, they toast. And the cycle continues through a few more. To Amelie. To the patron saint of marriage, whose name eludes Seamus at the time. To England.  
  
“One last toast,” Seamus says. They’ve reached the end of the bottle. After filling each of their glasses - though with the limited remains of the bottle, they’ve each got just half a glass - he raises his own and toasts solemnly, “To love.”  
  
“To love,” she says, clinking her glass with his and throwing it back.  
  
When she sets her hand onto the bench to keep from wobbling (wine’s never really been her friend), she’s surprised to feel the warmth of Seamus’ hand instead of the cold wood of the bench. “Oh! Sorry.” Immediately, she goes to move her hand, but he appears to have other ideas. Her mind is too fogged to figure out when it’d happened, but he’s now holding her hand in place, his thumb running over the back of her hand.  
  
“What’re you doing?” she asks, not bothering to attempt moving her hand again. For what reason, she doesn’t feel like thinking about. Her head doesn’t like thinking right now.  
  
“Toasting love,” he murmurs, his hand moving to instead grasp her wrist. And then, before she can make head or tail of what’s happening, she feels one hand pressed against the exposed back of her dress and the other caressing the nape of her neck, pulling her in. As their lips connect, the familiarity sets in, along with a feeling of such security she’s never experienced elsewhere. She never realizes how much she misses him until moments like these, and then it hits her like a train. Like the stupid Hogwarts Express, where they’d first done this.  
  
Nobody ever tells you what an aphrodisiac familiarity is.  
  
When he pulls away, tucking his face into her neck, against one of those pressure points he knows by heart, realization dawns - like a bucket of ice and water meant to drown her - and her heart plummets. She reluctantly pulls away and puts small distance between their bodies, quickly dissuading him from seeking her mouth again. “I’m seeing someone.”  
  
“Yeah, I heard.” If his face was any indication, this was very low on his list of interesting conversation topics. “Clearly, you’re very happy with your boyfriend if you’re sitting out here kissing me.”  
  
She breaks the silence after a minute or so. Padma hasn’t felt a silence so awkward between them in years, and that feeling is crushing. Every time they’d seen each other since his move, they’d fallen into bed together. She’s detemined to break the cycle. “This shouldn’t have happened.”  
  
“That’s what you say every time, you know.”  
  
Padma winces at the venom in his voice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drank so much, especially around you.” She winces again, cursing the alcohol for removing her filter.  
  
“Merlin, I hope you remember all this shite in the morning, Padma.” He’s now sitting facing straight ahead, his head resting in his hands. She has to use all her remaining will power not to run her hand through his hair. “You need to figure out what it is you want.”  
  
Padma scoffs. “And you know exactly what you want, do you?”  
  
“Yes!” he says forcefully, turning his head to look at her. But she can’t maintain eye contact with him, his eyes are so intense. “I want you. I want us. I want this, not including whatever idiot you’re seeing now.”  
  
“I thought we agreed -”  
  
“I needed the career boost, and you understood that. You refused to do anything long distance, and I didn’t understand it but I respected it. So I went. And we split.”  
  
“We never would have lasted with the distance, Seamus,” she says evenly, having memorized her side of this argument. “I stand by my decision to stop while we were ahead.”  
  
“You don’t know that, Padma. People survive long-distance relationships. Your decision was to end it before it even had a chance to survive.”  
  
Seamus stands, collecting the now-empty bottle and glass he’d come with. “You know, I’m not just doing grunt work any more. I could get transferred back to England at the drop of a hat. I’ve been toying with the idea for a while now. I just don’t know what I’d be coming back to anymore.”  
  
And then he’s gone, lost in the crowd of the reception.  
  
  
“I don’t know what to do.” Merlin, those words are difficult to say.  
  
Padma Patil rarely asks anyone for help, more keen on being the independent woman and accomplishing things on her own. One hundred percent self-powered. No thanks, I don’t need help. I can do it. She’s probably phrased it a million different ways in her life. In fact, it’s probably what she says most often. Who knows who she’s even striving to prove herself to anymore. Maybe to herself?  
  
In sum, she hopes the ego sacrifice isn’t lost on Anthony. He knows the whole story, everything. From the beginning to now. In fact, he probably remembers more of the details, simply from her regaling him with them - though he’d probably use a different word, like bombard or harass. She’s filled in the miniscule gaps for him since they left the reception.  
  
After what seems like several minutes, they reach the Apparition Point, he speaks. “Well, what do you want?” It sounds so matter-of-fact coming from him, but in Padma’s mind it’s so much more complicated.  
  
The drink in her responds. “To be happy. What else?”  
  
A smile creeps up his cheeks. “I’m glad you decided to join us plebeians in that effort. Then how are you going to get there? What is the key to happiness for one, Padma Patil?”  
  
She looks up at him, sure her confusion is painted across her face. She can’t force the words out of her mouth again, so she just shrugs.  
  
“You need to figure that out. He basically said he would come back for you. Seamus has made his decision. You are his key - he’s as good as said it and tattooed your name on his bits.”  
  
A snort escapes her, despite her most valiant attempts to subdue it. But Anthony doesn’t falter in his near-diatribe.  
  
“Is your key to happiness being right? If so, by all means, keep away from Finnigan. Keep dating these throwaway blokes, and you’ll rest assured you were  _right_  to push Finnigan to take that international job and give him up.  
  
“But if you decide you can’t reason yourself happy with your  _logic_ , and you decide that he is your key to happiness, bugger all that. And bugger Barney. Bugger the lot of ‘em. Your key to happiness just fucking put his head on a silver platter for you.”  
  
She’s never allowed herself such a direct comparison between these parts of her lives: Barney - and the other men like him in the past couple years, and Seamus. Sure, she’d compared them a couple of times - but never with such purpose. Before, it’d all been accidental, and she’d just as quickly banished the thought.  
  
When it comes down to it, she realizes at this moment, there’s one thing that truly marks him apart from the other men, as represented by Barney. That when she’s with Seamus, without pretense or anxiety, she experiences a level of contentment that seems to lift her soul to what can only be described as “home.”  
  
Happiness must be that. A contentment so deep-rooted that it transcends.  
  
She’s never thought of their relationship in those terms. In terms of nirvana. And maybe their relationship wasn’t (isn’t? - she doesn’t know how to define it anymore) devoid of desire or suffering, but it’s the closest she’s ever come to transcendence, and so it is - for her - just that.  
  
Nirvana.  
  
She couldn’t turn that down twice.


End file.
